Unsuitable Girl

by Ling, Maria

  "Everything coming on well?" Mrs Swann's voice behind her made Annis swallow her grief.

  "All in hand, madam." Mrs Goodman thumped the beef joint onto its rack. "Annis makes the soup, we have the main dish here, and the syllabub's been standing since this morning. I've sent the boy for peaches, but I don't know if he'll find any. It's early."

  "Pears will do." Mrs Swann paused at Annis' table in a swish of blue muslin. "What kind of soup?"

  "Clear shin broth with fried onions."

  "That will do nicely. Those onions are strong, aren't they? Be careful with your eyes." She disappeared. Annis sniffled.

  "Always gracious, Mrs Swann," Mrs Goodman said. "You're a lucky girl to have her take you on."

  "Lucky to learn from you," Annis teased. She had discovered Mrs Goodman was an easy target for compliments. It distracted attention from Annis' own tears, at least for a moment.

  "Silly child," Mrs Goodman said, and stalked off to hack at the celery.

  "Annis?" Mrs Swann leaned back into the kitchen. "When you're done with the soup, come upstairs for a moment, please."

  "Go now," Mrs Goodman suggested. "The soup can wait."

  Annis rinsed and dried her hands, hung up her apron, then climbed the stairs to the sitting room. Mrs Swann waited, deep in the morning's calling-cards.

  "Close the door and sit down," Mrs Swann said. Annis obeyed. "Now," Mrs Swann continued. "That's the third time I've caught you crying this week. What's the matter?"

  "It was the onions, madam."

  Mrs Swann put the cards down, sat up straight, and fixed Annis with a stare that cut like a meat-cleaver.

  "One thing I cannot abide," Mrs Swann said, "and that's lying. Do not sit under my roof and tell me a plain lie. Whatever you've done, I want to hear it. Now."

  Annis gulped. She couldn't tell. But if she didn't, Mrs Swann - a new, stern Mrs Swann, with no hint of kindness in look or voice - might turn her out of doors in any case.

  "Are you pregnant?" Mrs Swann demanded.

  "No, of course not - "

  "Look me in the eye."

  Annis met the woman's eyes for a heartbeat - for two - then blinked and looked away.

  "So," Mrs Swann said. "Not quite such an innocent admiration for young Cornet Dean as you claimed."

  "It wasn't - " Annis bit her tongue. She couldn't tell the truth. No one would believe her. And even if they did, it wouldn't save her now.

  "I blame him more than you," Mrs Swann said. "He has nothing to lose, while you have everything. That alone should have made him pause. I will tell him what I think of it."

  "Please don't - "

  "He will be here this evening," Mrs Swann said. "I will ask him to call tomorrow to discuss the matter. I suggest you keep yourself away. Did he pay you?"

  "A hundred pounds," Annis admitted, crushed. "But he didn't know. It was to end the matter." Which it had done, until now.

  "That's generous," Mrs Swann reflected. "Even so. We come now to the matter of your deceit. I will not have anyone in my employment who cannot be trusted. Have you taken any thought for what you might do?"

  "I thought I would go into the country."

  "Where you'll be shunted from one parish to the next as no one wants a bastard dropped in their church." Mrs Swann sighed. "That's no solution. I can see three possibilities for you. One is to remove the child. I take it you've already considered that?"

  Annis raised her chin.

  "I have decided against."

  "More fool you. The second is prostitution. What is your decision there?"

  Annis bit down hard against new tears.

  "From your silence," Mrs Swann said, "I conclude that you have scruples. This pleases me. The third option is to marry. I will put what pressure I can on young William, but it may not amount to much. If he refuses, there is little I can do. And do understand that a marriage to you is likely to ruin his career. You would bring him neither wealth nor connections, but stand in the way of his achieving both."

  Annis breathed in deep and steadied herself.

  "That is why I wouldn't ask him," she said.

  "He made the mess," Mrs Swann said. "He should clean it up."

  "A child is not a mess."

  "Then you will go back to your parents, who presumably are in a position to look after you?" Mrs Swann's sharp voice lashed Annis' heart. She must know it was impossible.

  "They are both dead," Annis faltered. "I have no family." None that she knew how to reach - and in any case, she would not burden others with this. All she wanted to do was work for a living and raise her baby as best she could. Why must that be forbidden?

  "You cannot raise a child alone." Mrs Swann appeared to read her thoughts. "You need money and help with practical matters. If you marry young William, there will at least be two of you. And the child would have a father."

  Annis winced. "She already does."

  "You believe it to be a girl?"

  "I am certain." Annis couldn't say how she knew. She just did.

  "Do not underestimate the power of legitimacy," Mrs Swann said. "It can open doors. A connection to the Swann family, no matter how distant, could stand the girl in very good stead."

  "A connection to the family?" Annis repeated, bewildered.

  "William's brother Edward is married to my husband's niece. Were you not aware?"

  Annis swallowed. "I was not."

  "I cannot in conscience recommend William to marry you," Mrs Swann said. "In social terms, it can bring him nothing but harm. But for you, it would mean a great deal - and I think he owes you some recompense for the situation he's placed you in."

  Annis battled with herself. Now was the time to clear William's name, to confess that he was not the child's father. The colonel was. She opened her mouth to speak, but Mrs Swann cut her off.

  "We shall not speak further of this until I have seen William myself. Go back to the kitchen and do your work. Leave the rest to me."

  Annis withdrew. The unsaid words lay heavy on her tongue. She stumbled back to her onions and let tears trickle from her eyes.

  ***

  Annis hesitated. The glass-fronted shop displayed racks of bottled promises. She could step inside, state her errand - the disgust of a stranger did not frighten her, not now she'd had to confess to such a terrible judge as Mrs Swann - and end her troubles that same afternoon.

  Except that she'd caught the glimpse of a customer within, a hazy outline of hat and cloak that reminded her of Mrs Powell.

  Annis hung back. She could not wait for long, or the entire street must guess the nature of her errand. But she dared not go inside and risk meeting the colonel's wife.

  "Miss Jones?"

  The voice, so familiar and so unexpected, made her jump. She whirled around and saw William not two steps away.

  "I waited for you," he said. "These past three weeks. I thought perhaps you might come this way again."

  "Why would I do that?" Annis replied, her tone offhand. He couldn't know, surely. Couldn't guess.

  "Not here, I don't mean. Past the alley at the side of the church."

  Annis glanced down the street to the shadow of their old meeting-place.

  "I called to see you," William said. "They told me you'd left."

  "I did."

  "Why?

  "The place was no longer to my liking."

  "And where are you now?"

  Annis dredged up her last reserves of strength.

  "That need not matter to you, sir," she said. "Your obligations are entirely discharged - as you were kind enough to tell me yourself, when you handed me that packet. Good day, Cornet Dean." She turned to walk away.

  "Wait." He strode up beside her. "Let me talk to you."

  "I cannot be seen to walk with you in public. It would harm your reputation."

  "Hang my reputation. The world can see us together, for all I care. Annis, I was wrong. I let my brother talk me into giving you up - for the sake of the family. I shouldn't have done i
t. I hurt you, and I'm sorry for that. I want to ask you to marry me."

  He'd handed her salvation, and didn't even know it. But she couldn't accept. Not at this price, not to bind herself into a lie that must last throughout their life together.

  "I should prefer that you did not ask," Annis said.

  He flinched back as if she'd slapped him, and her palms ached as if she'd delivered that blow.

  "I made a mistake," William said.

  "So did I." She walked on and didn't glance back. If he followed her, she never knew.

  ***

  "I am glad you called." Mrs Swann showed William into a chair. He promised himself not to stay, but it felt good to rest his feet for a moment. Standing in the cobbled alley was no harsh fate, but still it left him tired.

  That and Annis' refusal. He couldn't understand why she'd done it. He'd hurt her, yes, but if she wanted him then she'd only repeated his mistake. If she didn't want him - no, he wouldn't pursue that thought. Things could not have changed so much in a month.

  "I was glad to get your note," William replied. "You said you have a particular matter to discuss."

  "Annis Jones."

  If the house had collapsed around him to reveal nothing but empty fields, he could not have been more shocked.

  "Do not deny that you know her," Mrs Swann said. "She has confided in me. I think you have treated her very badly."

  William suppressed a groan. More blame from every quarter, and worse because he knew he deserved it.

  "May I ask how the matter has come to your attention?"

  "She is in my service." Mrs Swann delivered the second shock with absolute composure. "I am pleased with her. She's a hard worker, a good servant, and a girl of principle. I taxed her, but her thoughts never strayed into paths that I would judge to be wrong. Her concern was for the child, her own ability to raise it, and the welfare of everyone concerned - including you. That shows a mature and responsible mind."

  William regained the power of speech. He almost thought the fields spread out around him, and he in the grip of a paralysing fever.

  "Child?" he repeated.

  "Yes." Mrs Swann poured him a cup of tea. "Annis is pregnant. She wishes to keep the baby. I would support her either way, of course, but that is not material. What concerns me now is whether you are willing to secure a respectable future for them both."

  "I shall do what is right," William said. His mind lay blank: he could hardly shape any words at all.

  "Then you intend to marry her?"

  "That may prove difficult. I proposed to her this morning. She refused."

  Mrs Swann sipped her tea.

  "Silly girl," she muttered. "I wonder what she is about." She rang the bell, then asked the footman to fetch Annis.

  Annis arrived, pale and tense. She started when she saw him.

  "Sit down," Mrs Swann said. "William has something to say to you. I wish you to hear it."

  "I want to marry you," William said. He felt like a fool.

  Annis shook her head.

  "I already told you I can't."

  "Nonsense," Mrs Swann cut in. "Please do not tell me you have fallen out of love with him."

  Annis' cheeks tinged with pink.

  "No," she admitted.

  William let out a breath he hadn't realised he'd been holding.

  "Then why?" he insisted. "I love you. You love me. Money isn't what it could be, but I have a solution for that. I plan to sell my commission. It should fetch eight hundred pounds for us to live on. We could manage."

  "No," Annis said. Her voice lay so quiet he could barely hear it.

  "We could," William insisted. "I want to take care of you and the child. Let me. Please."

  Annis shook her head.

  "The child is mine," William said. "As the father, do I not get any say in its future?"

  A terrible pause waited between them. Annis' head tilted up. Her eyes gleamed with tears.

  "The child isn't yours," she said. "It's Colonel Powell's."

  William stared at her. All over his body, his skin turned cold as frost.

  "I see," Mrs Swann said in a voice that etched lines along his nerves.

  "He forced me," Annis said. Her face held an eerie calm, and she looked past them to something William could not see. "He threatened me. I had no choice."

  Another silence sank onto the rug.

  "The swine," William said. "He'll pay for that."

  Annis' gaze shifted onto him.

  "You can't make him," she said. "He'll destroy your career. And he'll make sure I can't get a position anywhere ever again. He said so."

  "I'll be the judge of that," Mrs Swann said. "Annis, I apologise for the way I spoke to you last. You have a place here, and I would be honoured if you would consent to keep it. Should you choose to leave, you will have a better reference than you came with. I'd like to see Colonel Powell attempt to trifle with that." Her features hardened until she looked as much of a soldier as any William had trained with.

  Tears spilled onto Annis' cheeks. She wiped them away with swift flicks of her hand.

  "Thank you," she whispered.

  William breathed from his gut. He didn't know what he felt, or what he thought, but the right thing to do lay clear before his mind.

  "No matter who the father is," he said, "the child still needs to be raised by someone. I'd like it to be me."

  Annis clutched her hands together. Her lips twitched as if she tried to hold back a word.

  "Unless you don't want me," William said. The thought gashed his heart, but he had to speak it. He had to know.

  Annis raised her eyes to his.

  "I do," she whispered.

  "If you ask me," Mrs Swann said, "Colonel Powell ought to do his part. He can't bully a servant into pleasuring him, then leave her on the street with nothing but a bastard child for company."

  "But I - " William began, angered.

  "Yes, I know," Mrs Swann said. "Handsome of you. But that doesn't change the iniquity of what he's done. Marry by all means, and with my blessing, but I'll find a way to make Colonel Powell take some share of his own responsibility."

  "It doesn't matter." William took Annis' hand. "We'll manage."

  Her fingers curled around his, and her eyes shone.

  ***

  "I could find a buyer," Hoyle admitted. "Might get you a little more, though there would be a fee. But it's a cursed shame you have to do it."

  "I want to," William said. "Nothing would make me serve under that man any longer."

  "Fine sentiments," Hoyle observed. "Though I'm with Mrs Swann on this. He ought to make some sort of contribution."

  "I could ask," William said.

  "Do that." Hoyle mused. "Tonight is cards night at the mess. Get him alone and charge him then. If he agrees, he can pass you the money and claim it's a debt. If he doesn't...well."

  "Well, what?"

  Hoyle grinned and shuffled the deck.

  "We take him," Hoyle said.

  ***

  "Don't be absurd," the colonel huffed. "The girl is lying, of course. Pert little baggage - my wife is well rid of her. Besides, even if it were true, she wouldn't see a shilling from me. I can't pay out for every bastard child this regiment fathers."

  "She's not lying." William fought to keep his voice and face polite. He wanted to throttle the man. "She's not that kind of girl."

  "Taken you in, has she? Well, if you'll listen to my advice you'll drop her and think no more of the matter. Port?"

  William shook his head. He left the colonel to fill the glass and retreated towards Hoyle.

  "No luck?" Hoyle cast one glance at William's face, then split and shuffled the pack. "Plan B, then."

  "It's not enough," William said quietly. "I want to kill him."

  "We're off to the Continent within a month," Hoyle reminded him. "We'll all be dead soon enough." He glanced past William, and his eyes lit. "Colonel! Feeling lucky tonight?"

  "I am." The colonel settle
d into the next chair. "What are you playing, boys?"

  "We await your orders, sir."

  "Quite so. Whist, then."

  William choked back a groan. He was rotten at whist - always had been. "I'd be honoured," he said.

  "I wasn't...that is to say..." The colonel glared at him. "No need for you to trouble yourself, Dean."

  "He could do with learning from a master," Hoyle pointed out.

  The colonel preened.

  "I am rather skilled at the game," he conceded. "Well then, young Dean, let's concentrate on important matters. Play low on second, high on third. Lead trumps from a strong hand, not from a weak. Devil take you if you lead an ace without the king. Understand?"

  William swallowed. "Perfectly, sir." He threw a glare of desperation at Hoyle, who winked in return.

  They played one rubber, William partnered with the colonel and Hoyle with Captain Parkes. At the end of an hour, the colonel glared across the table.

  "We'll play another," he announced. "But you, young man, are no longer wanted in this game."

  "We can swap," Hoyle suggested. "I'll partner Dean."

  The colonel muttered. "I suppose," he said at last. "Give me a chance to pull back that three hundred pounds."

  William twisted his neck against his collar. Sweat soaked the back of his shirt. The colonel had pulled him deep into debt - a man couldn't refuse to bet when ordered - and now he looked set to lose even more.

  "The bet is three hundred," Hoyle said. "Or five hundred? Say the word, sir."

  "Six hundred," the colonel said. "You'll pay for your insolence, Hoyle."

  Hoyle grinned and shuffled the deck. William ceded his chair to Parkes and took up his new position. He cut the deck, with a brief silent prayer to any saint of gamblers, then passed it to the colonel, who dealt.

  "Diamonds are trumps," Colonel Powell said as he turned up the last card.

  William gave his cards a sulky stare. They were nothing special - a run of indifferent clubs, the queen of spades, a spatter of hearts.

  The first six tricks for each partnership built up in even distribution. William took one with his queen, which startled him until Hoyle mopped up two more with the ace and king of spades. Then he trumped the colonel's knave of spades with his lone diamond, the two, which earned him a ferocious glare from his adversary and a cheerful "Well played, Dean" from Hoyle. This left him with only one card - a six of clubs - to lead the final trick. Parkes beat that with a ten of clubs, and William's chest contracted. Hoyle shot him another grin across the table and trumped with the four of diamonds.